I read in the papers somewhere
that poetry belongs to the youth
And that adults and the elderly
Have no more rhyme nor rhythm
Life has beaten it out of them
I laughed my head off
Snorted out some phlegm
Flicked the page dismissively
(such a crock story)
The timeless pull of words and prose
Poetry and pentameter is everlasting
I started at a sly eight and I plan to write
till I am a spry hundred and eight
Even if my blank verse and doddering rhyming
Give you a migraine headache and the shivers
(My sincere apologies in advance)
The writer must be such a fool
Is there any sort of rule?
What about late-bloomers then?
Whose art only flowers
In the winter of their youth
Or the autumn of their elder days
What happens if the middle-aged rot
Never quite reaches their soul?
(Crock stories in the paper)
Fire the editor!!
-Anne The Obscure
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